


Another Dawn

by Her_Madjesty



Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternative Universe - LARP, Claude has a crush, Epic Battles, F/M, The Beginnings of Pining, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Her_Madjesty
Summary: “The warrior from Le Crête de Feu,” Claude says, “the one with blue hair and the ridiculous sword. Can you find out who she is for me?”
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: To and Fro - Bicolline [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1751797
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50





	Another Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to everyone who's enjoyed this series so far! I'm enjoying exploring different avenues of thought and jumping through time to watch these dorky kids.

Year 3

Le Cerf D’or is a fledgling guild, barely large enough to attract the attention of the others. That’s the reason, Claude tells himself, that he spends his first few days back at Bicolline searching for the largest bow he can find.

Some of the vendors nod at him as he passes. It’s not that he’s recognizable, not really, but Claude knows the power of a pretty face. He grins back, something wry, and watches more than a few look on with interest.

It won’t necessarily catch him a deal, but there’s value in alliances. Woo a few here and there, and Le Cerf D’or’s reputation grows. They attract more players; they’re taken seriously on the battlefield; they have more accesses to resources online and in-person -

Claude shakes his head.

His ambitions aren’t overwhelming, per se. The point of Bicolline, after all, is to fight and keep on fighting. It is a deliberate separation from the real world; one where resources and affections and conflict can be settled with a bow and arrow instead of with words and mergers.

Thus, his goals here are small. Foster Le Cerf D’or. Take on a higher position in the guild. Become a force to be reckoned with, until he can start to sway the direction of Bicolline in its entirety.

For now, though – he starts with a bigger bow. A gaudier bow.

A bow that can’t be ignored.

The vendor he finds has a shop in Old Town, stuck in between one of Bicolline’s larger taverns and an armory. He has to duck his head to get through the entry, but the rest of the shop is a little more spacious. All along the walls and tables, there are weapons for all types.

The bows are on the back wall. Claude weaves his way through the crowd, gently touching the shoulders of strangers in all manner of garb.

(Across the shop, a woman with dark blue hair ducks her head, slipping out the front door.)

Claude comes to a stop a few feet in front of the vendor’s counter and stares past her head, hands on his hips. She doesn’t look at him, too busy with another transaction, but he feels her eyes pass over him as he inspects her stock.

By the time her customer disappears, he’s fixed on the bow in the left corner of the room. Its yellow paint is chipped on one end, but the thick grip looks as though it’d sing under his hand.

“Like what you see?” asks the vendor, her French lilting and curious.

Inside his own mind, Claude sighs. “You could say that,” he says, smiling instead. He leans on the counter and points towards his bow of choice with his chin. “She’s beautiful.”

The vendor flushes and follows his gaze. “I made her myself,” she says. “She’s a bit much for most, but I figure she’s just waiting for the right person.”

Claude chuckles. “Well, let’s hope that’s me. May I hold her?”

The vendor’s flush deepens. She turns back, and Claude’s charismatic front fractures.

She’s a lovely woman, there’s no denying it. But he’s going to have to navigate out of this if he wants to make it out of the shop without hurting her feelings.

It’s Bicolline, though. Things that happen here – well, they’re temporary. They don’t mean anything in the world beyond these three hundred acres.

The vendor turns back to him, cradling the bow in her hands. Claude takes it with a ginger touch, his dark gloves contrasting with the gold accents on the bow’s many ridges.

He shifts his weight onto his back foot and brings the bow upright. A pulse thrums through his hand as he pulls the bowstring back, stopping just before it kisses his cheek.

The vendor exhales.

He releases his shot.

Though there’s no arrow for him to thread, one of the attendees on the other side of the tent flinches.

Something glows, deep inside his chest. Claude feels himself almost start to smile.

“I’ve never held a bow so lovely,” he says, turning back to the vendor. “How much are you asking?”

The vendor names her price, and the haggling begins.

In the end, Claude pays close to what she asks for. He knows better than to push his luck. After all, there’s real craftsmanship gone into the bow’s make. The vendor accepts his argument regarding the chipped paint and lets him leave with a discount – and her tent number.

Claude graciously kisses the back of her hand. He walks slowly from the vendor’s shop, steadying his breath and winking as he leaves.

If his walk back to Le Cerf D’or’s camp is a little faster than usual, well – no one else can tell.

That night, he waves off his friends and allies in favor of sitting by one of the camp’s many bonfires. He holds the bow in his lap and delicately paints over what parts of it have started to chip. He’ll need to refinish it, once this year’s war is over, but there’s no hardship in that. His head’s already spinning with potential improvements. Anything’s possible, after all, so long as he stays within Bicolline’s regulations.

*

There are a number of guilds at Bicolline this year looking to make a name for themselves. Le Cerf D’or has been challenged by many of them in an attempt to drive the new blood into the ground. Some have even partnered with larger guilds, like L’Ordo Cervi, to make a point of their standing and ambitions.

Le Cerf D’or stands alone and is prouder for it. Even so, it makes every battle they fight a little harder.

Today’s is no different, but that doesn’t mean Le Cerf D’or’s army doesn’t go in singing.

The guild’s leader, Holst, leaves the song choices to the other members of his guild, and a ready few step up to the plate. Claude falls into step beside him as, somewhere in the midst of the party, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester clears his throat.

He’s almost militaristic about it, Claude thinks, as he starts to sing. “Wild Geese” would normally demand a bit of humor in its lyrics, but there’s something almost dark in the way Le Cerf D’or’s voices ring out over the field.

“Attention, take care! Unsteady flight!

The world is full of murdering.”

Claude frowns as, beside him, Holst offers up the smallest of smiles. He nudges Claude with his elbow, then tosses his head back and joins in with the second verse.

Le Cerf D’or may sing, here, but Claude Von Riegan does not. Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed forward, onto the battlefield to come.

They’re in a new spot this year – a hillside, with the river to their backs and a valley to the front. On the other side of the field, he can see navy banners intermingled with purples. Today is Les Loups Cendres, then, along with…

“Who’re the pipsqueaks?” Holst asks, as though his own guild barely cracks a hundred members in number.

“Le Crête de Feu," Claude replies. “They’re new. I think they broke with L’Ordo Cervi a year or two ago. Seems they’ve forged an alliance already.”

“Eh, looks like it’s a temporary one.”

Across the battlefield, Claude can already see the two guild leaders’ staring each other down. One, a tall blonde with a patch over one eye, towers over Les Loups Cendres’ smaller leader, but it’s clear as day to Claude which one is actually in charge.

“With any luck, we can exploit that,” he says, nodding towards the conflict. Holst follows his gaze and huffs out a laugh.

“What’s better than this?” he asks. “They won’t even blame us when we crush them.”

Claude hums. There’s movement in the trees that he’s busy tracking, even as Le Cerf D’or shift their songs behind him. Someone’s breaking away from the army with a contingent behind them – though they’re not as subtle as they think.

He tells Holst as much and quickly receives his orders. On his way to meet the contingent, he grabs the few deer he knows well – Leonie, a lancer, and Lysithea, a mage. Leonie moans as he takes her from the front lines, but she’s quick to brighten as he promises her a fight.

“And you’ll actually let me get a few hits in, won’t you?” demands Lysithea.

“When wouldn’t I, princess?” Claude asks with a bow at the waist. Lysithea smacks his chest as she passes him by, setting in with her battalion of mages.

Claude sticks Leonie at the front of their pack, then rapidly makes his way up one of the trees. It’s not the most sportsman-like first position, but it gives him the best view of the field.

The presence in the trees shift. He takes his bow from his back and lets the gold paint catch in the sun.

Downfield, one of Bicolline’s many representatives takes to the field on horseback. In the distance, a whistle blows.

The battle begins.

*

Claude dreams at Bicolline.

It’s not that he doesn’t dream back in the real world. But the dreams he has, staring at the root of his tent – they’re different, somehow.

Kinder. Crueler?

Different.

He dreams of wings beneath him, of sailing through the sky at a dizzying rate. He dreams of battlefields and of the gleam of a bow in his hand, one that fires again and again until all of his enemies have fallen to the ground.

He dreams of a commander – and it isn’t Holst. It isn’t even him, though some small, wounded part of his pride insists it should be.

Instead, it’s a woman.

She’s smaller than he is, though the sword she bears into battle is – monstrous, to say the least. He dives low on a dragon – no, a wyvern – and it shoots out before her, unrepentant as it strives down an enemy prepared to shoot him out of the sky.

(Those, of course, are the better dreams. There are others where he stares at her across the battlefield, and she doesn’t even acknowledge him; doesn’t look at him until her sword’s piercing through his heart and sending him down towards a turbulent sea.)

He tries to catch these dreams in his hands. He wakes too late in the morning, desperate to understand, but the dreams turn foggy as the days go on.

By the time he packs away his things and heads to the airport, they’re nothing but distant memories. He tries to think on them – on her – as he makes his way back to reality, but her face; her sword; her presence by his side disappear as reality settles back in.

*

Claude stays in his tree as Leonie charges forward. The contingent their enemies have sent through the forest understands that their cover’s been blown, but that doesn’t stop them from rushing out to meet them. Claude watches as Leonie all but leaps over the front line, the butt of her lance smacking one soldier harmlessly in the face as she uses the dulled tip to propel herself forward.

His own arrows are a lazy defense of both her and Lysithea. He positions himself carefully, keeps the gold of his bow bright in the sun but the rest of him obscured in shadow.

A few arrows come his way, but none reach quite high enough to knock him from his perch. He grins down at what soldiers do come his way and rapidly picks them off, sending them back towards their base for a resurrection.

Across the field, he hears Holst's battle cry. He glances back – and yes, there’s the blue lancer ducking and parrying Holst's unforgiving ax, unable to find the opening he needs.

His tree shivers. Claude frowns and looks down.

Someone’s climbing up to his perch.

It’s a dangerous move, but he admires it, all the same. As light as a feather, Claude drops from his branch, clutching his bow with one hand while managing his descent.

He feels the ghost of a sword whip past his cheek as he tumbles onto the ground.

With a quick duck and roll, he’s back on his feet – and then there’s blue hair, brute force, and surprisingly graceful footwork driving him down the hill.

Claude’s an archer, through and through. He blocks his enemy’s blows with his bow, but she’s unrelenting. It’s not until the ground starts to even out beneath his feet that Claude has a terrifying thought: he may be losing this fight.

It’s that thought, more than anything else, that pushes him to reach for his arrows.

He catches the warrior by surprise, digging an arrow into her knee. He has to go down on the ground to manage the shot, but it’s enough to put her off balance. She does, at least, play fair, tucking ankle behind ankle as she continues forward.

Claude rolls out of the way of another flurry of blows, finally able to use his speed to his advantage. He backs up towards the hillside, preparing to pull back his bow -

Her sword comes spinning at him, only to smack him across both thighs.

Claude blinks. Pauses. Settles down on his knees, confusion marring the furious frustration of losing the upper hand.

His opponent wobbles towards him. Claude braces, using his bow to parry away her attack. In the midst of the sweat and adrenaline, he thinks he knows her, but all coherent thought is lost as she drives forward.

In between heartbeats, his bow catches her remaining ankle. She tumbles to the ground but thrusts at him anyway. He catches her sword with his gauntlet and chucks her weapon to the side.

Claude expects her to snarl, to react, to do something – but her face is stock still.

He feels a fear instinct rise up in his chest, but she’s too quick to react. Within a second, she’s on him, pulling a dagger from her hip to press against his neck.

“Dead,” she says, breathless. She’s close enough, Claude realizes, for the word to warm his cheek.

Despite everything, he grins at her. Her stoic expression flickers into something like confusion.

Claude digs the last of his arrows deeper into her stomach, only to watch her wince. “You, too,” he grits back. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to leave the crop tops off the battlefield?”

The warrior huffs. With what Claude assumes to be the remains of her dignity, she rolls off of him and flops into the grass at his side. Claude relaxes and lets his head fall back, better to stare up at the clouds rolling in overhead.

They stay like that for a moment. The sounds of battle flow on around them.

Claude thinks about reaching out, of saying – something – but the space between them is a peaceful one. He clings to it, lets it hover over him with its unnatural familiarity.

“What’s your name?” he asks, as a lancer goes rushing past.

The warrior at his side says nothing. After a few breaths longer, she props herself up on her elbows and looks him over.

Claude has nothing to offer her but a finger wave and a grin, but he gives them to her, anyway.

“They call me Le Demone Cendre,” she tells him, at last. “I suppose you can call me that, too.”

“The Ashen Demon,” Claude hums. “Well, mon demone – never let it be said that you go down easy.”

The demon huffs and makes her way back to her feet. Claude rises, too, and watches her gather her sword up from where he’d thrown it away. The stark color of it, bone white against green, catches on his memory. Claude frowns; it’s just there, just out of reach -

But it slips away into the fog.

“I’ll find you again!” he calls as the demon walks away. “Don’t think this is over!”

She raises a hand in acknowledgment before disappearing into the fray. There’s no fight in her, can’t be until she’s resurrected, but Claude watches the tension rise in her shoulders.

He knows her.

He thinks he knows her.

...maybe he knows her.

Holst cries out from down the battlefield, and he shakes himself into awareness. Claude’s back on his feet and slow jogging towards Le Cerf D’or’s own resurrection point before he can follow his demone aimlessly into an enemy’s camp.

“What took you so long?” Lysithea demands, already on her way back towards the field.

All Claude can do is shrug.

By the time he returns from the base, it’s clear that the battle’s lost. Le Cerf D’or have been driven back to their hillside, where they maintain the higher ground, if only just. Claude watches Holst fall and is quick to shoot down his attacker, but even his skill with the bow isn’t enough.

By the time the whistle sounds, Le Cerf D’or have been soundly beaten.

Claude scans the battlefield as he searches for his arrows, but the blue hair of Le Demone Cendre has long disappeared.

*

(That night, he dreams of her again. She’s pushed back against the edge of a cliff, sword gleaming in the setting sun. Overhead, he hears something scream, a sound so pained and angry that it shakes him to his core. As he watches, the ground beneath the commander starts to crumble.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s running – running – running -

But she disappears over the edge before he can reach her.)

*

Claude wakes the day after the battle with a hangover and dread deep in his gut. He spends several minutes trying to catch his breath, palms pressed gently against his eyes.

Before he even goes for breakfast, still in his sleep clothes, he finds Hilda. She’s staring at a blue-haired mage with a look so embarrassing that Claude feels he should call her on it, but he holds his piece.

She starts when he drops down beside her.

“I need a favor.”

Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. She waits, but Claude can’t bring himself to speak.

“That’s it?” she demands. “Nothing charming to add?”

Claude sighs and scrubs the last of the sleep from his eyes. Whenever the world goes dark, he can see her – the blue-haired commander – tipping over the edge of the world, her expression stricken with shock and fear.

“The warrior from Le Crête de Feu,” he says, “the one with blue hair and the ridiculous sword. Can you find out who she is for me?”

Hilda blinks. She looks back to the mage – Marianne, Claude thinks; a quiet girl – then to him once more.

“What’s in it for me?”

Despite the dull sludge of morning dragging at his bones, Claude manages a shadow of a smile. “I suppose you’ll have to wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think!


End file.
